


Comfort

by pocketwitch



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-11-04
Updated: 2006-11-04
Packaged: 2017-12-10 20:33:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/789878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocketwitch/pseuds/pocketwitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for <a href="http://bubbleficathon.livejournal.com/">bubbleficathon</a>.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Comfort

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [bubbleficathon](http://bubbleficathon.livejournal.com/).

She had been dying and that had been that.

There were things that you simply did not do. Kissing the President of the Twelve Colonies was most definitely one of them.

How many things on that intangible list had he checked off since the world went to hell? Counting seemed purposeless. She was the one who counted, or had at least, before the world-gone-to-hell had found a way to redefine its terms. He had no idea what the numbers would look like now … on either count.

She had been dying, and dying in pain.

In a world that had grown exceedingly low on comfort, she often seemed to radiate it. There were facts that could not be denied; as exhausting and exasperating as she could be, she was equally intelligent (if naïve) and charismatic (if occasionally bordering on the edges of sanity), and, above all else, sincere. The sincerity, perhaps, was what bred the comfort – or, more to the point, the proof that sincerity could still exist. For the moment, at least.

It had started slowly, as slow as their conversation; he had never been a quick banterer, and she was saturated with weariness. Yet they had talked into the night; easily, comfortably.

Comfortable with each other, at least. He knew that he could do nothing for her pain, but he was equally incapable of doing _nothing_.

It had started with her shoulders – a casual massage as they talked; a blinking moment of awkwardness at the shifting dynamic, the unfamiliar touch – a breath before they laughed, both of them, and she leaned back into his hands, closed her eyes.

The evening was long and fluid, the political and the personal often indistinguishable in their discussion. Her funeral plans were laid that night, calmly and logically, the determinations made of how her few wishes could be integrated with the necessary rituals. He had considered, later, making notes on this part of the conversation, but had known that there was no need; he would never forget what he now hoped to never have to recall.

She was dying, and she was tired, and he had planned to leave; she talked of having a bath before bed, and he didn’t want to keep her until she hadn’t the energy left to enjoy the comfort. He offered to draw the water for her - a courtesy, a preservation of her strength. Her gratitude was far too great for so small a favor.

She stood to see him out, and when he saw the waver in her movement he found that leaving was not an option. One hand at her elbow, one arm sturdy around her back, he escorted her to the bathroom. She didn’t waste the effort of pretending to object.

This time, there was no blink. There was only her weight – far, far too little of it – against his shoulder as he unfastened her robe. There was no hesitation now; there was only what she needed, and what she needed was to be steadied, guided. What she needed was the comfort of the warm water. There was no slow chatter now; there were only his movements, as fluid as their conversation, sliding the rough sponge along her back with such a gentleness that she leaned back against it, smiled.

“I may seem like glass, but my skin isn’t paper.”

“Mmm. Lean forward.”

And then silence, but for the sounds of water, sponge and skin, hands and hair and soap, until the heavy moisture began to fade from the air and the mirror was no longer cloudy.

Her arm around his shoulders dripped water down the cloth of his uniform as he lifted her from the bath, dried her thoroughly, helped her back into her robe.

He hadn’t tucked anyone in to bed since Lee was nine. He hadn’t forgotten how.

It was her who had kissed him that time, and that time neither laughed.

She had been dying and that had been that. One does not bathe the President of the Twelve Colonies. He had not bathed the President of the Twelve Colonies. He had bathed a beloved, dying friend, who, by the most contorted of miracles, had not, in fact, died.

And now … now? He had no way to know what she suffered, what any of them suffered. Only that they did. He could only remember that once, when the world had gone to hell, she had, without realizing, brought him comfort. And once, when she was dying, he had done the same for her.


End file.
